


The Dead Queen

by ChloShow



Category: The Nice Guys (2016)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Coming Out, Dysfunctional Family, M/M, Mystery, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-11-30 12:50:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 19,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11463954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChloShow/pseuds/ChloShow
Summary: A missing person's case takes Jack and March to a Los Angeles gay bar.





	1. Chapter 1

The apartment was cozy, posh. You could tell young people lived there and that the one doing most of the decorating was the woman. Jack guessed she was the one with the money, the petite blonde with her hands clasped over her fiancé’s. Or she was the one who _spent_ it. ‘Girl doesn’t look like she’s worked a day in her life, not a real job any way.’ He thought as they recounted the mystery of a missing friend. Not her friend. The guy’s friend. The guy, David, who looked like he’d really rather not be speaking to Jack, waited for the girl, Helen, to finish recounting her story.

“I suggested we have lunch on Thursday at this charming little Italian place. George said that would be fine because he hadn’t had a decent meal in a while. Imagine! I guess not everyone in L.A. can afford to dine out all the time, you know. It’s amazing. I can’t believe someone can have a job and _still_ not afford a proper meal.”

“Maybe the price scared him away,” Jack joked, but considering Helen's tastes, it didn’t seem very off the mark.

“Oh, no, we would be paying, of course. _We_ invited him,” Helen laughed at the idea.

“ _You_ invited him, sweetheart,” David spoke low for this clarification.

“Because you were being a grump! I want to know your friends, _Da_ vid,” Helen directed the next portion at Jack, “ _I’ve_ been away in Europe for the past three months. Part of an agreement David and I had. We’ve been dating since university, and I said by now we either have to break up or get married. I needed some space to clear my head for this decision, so I toured France, England, and Italy, and I didn’t find a single guy there who could stand up to my _Da_ vid.” She scrunched up her nose in a way she thought was cute and gave her David a kiss.

Yep. She was the one with the money alright.

Jack didn’t mind little tangents here and there. He thought they fleshed out the entire picture. So far he’d gathered that Helen wasn’t tempted in Europe, or at least _said_ she wasn’t. But that didn’t explain what David did in L.A. for those three months. Maybe George had something to do with it.

“So he didn’t show up to lunch on Thursday?” He dove back into his line of questioning.

“No! We called his apartment, and he didn’t answer. I made David go by his apartment on Friday to see if he was okay.”

“He wasn’t there.”

“How do you know? He could’ve just been avoiding you.” For what reason, he didn’t know. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was definitely a reason why this David didn’t want this lunch to happen.

“I used the spare key,” David explained, “He wasn’t in his apartment. Usually he’d be at work during this time, but because he’s recently been _fired_ , I figured he’d probably be at home. Ya know, sulking.”

“Why’d he lose his job?” He felt this might have a bearing on the case. Did David get him fired?

This question caused David to clam up and spare a few quick, darting looks at Helen unconsciously. “His boss, Gill, was a—a capricious sort of guy. He’d make a decision based on the weather, ya see. Really manipulative, too. I told George he didn’t have to work there. He could work at any other bar in L.A. Why did it have to be Gilliam’s?”

Gilliam’s? The gay bar? Jack looked at the girl, whose face didn’t register familiarity in the slightest when the bar’s name was mentioned. She didn’t know.

With no context for George’s background, Helen chose to direct the conversation back to what she knew about the story, “ _I_ wanted to call the police about George if we didn’t hear about him by Saturday, but David simply refused.”

“I was not calling the police for someone we didn’t even know was actually _missing_ ,” David commented, opening up an earlier argument which Helen refused to entertain.

“I suggested hiring a private investigator instead, and here we are.” Helen had extricated her hand from her fiancé’s and now held her hands over her knee in anticipation of Jack’s reply.

Hmm. He wanted to get David on his own and ask more about those three months, but something told him that he wasn’t exactly going to be cooperative, especially if those three months involved Gilliam’s. He’d go to the bar, ask about George’s private life, who his friends—and enemies—were.

“Thank you for your time Helen. David. I think I have all that I need from you two to start my investigation. Now, I’ve got to address the unpleasant business of your bill.”

David winced ever so slightly, but Helen had no such reaction, going straight to her purse and pulling out a check for $500.

“I hope that’s enough.”

Jack thought of what March might say. ‘Squeeze her for all she’s got! Look at this place. You think her mommy and daddy would miss a few extra hundred bucks?'

“$500 is good for three days’ work,” Jack informed her, “If by the third day we don’t find him, you can either cut us another check or drop the case.”

Helen beat David to the punch, “We’re in this until we find him. It’s not good for my conscience to let this alone. Call us if you find anything.”

Considering her attitude, you’d think George was _Helen_ ’s friend, not David’s.

“It’s really not that big of a deal…” David started, but Helen cut him off.

“Nonsense,” she shot at David, and for the first time, she addressed the big, honking financial elephant in the room, “You’re just worried about the money. And what is money when a friend could be in trouble?” In the same breath, she turned to Jack, dismissing him, albeit politely, from their home, “Thank you, Mr. Healy. And good luck on your search.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you call me a thief, this is loosely based on James Baldwin's Giovanni's Room.


	2. Chapter 2

Before stopping off at the March’s, Jack dropped by a gas station to fill up and buy Holly a bottle of ginger ale. March had taken her to the doctor roughly three hours ago, and he was relieved to see the familiar car parked in the driveway, indicating they were back from the appointment and now knew what was the matter with Holly.

“She has strep throat like I said!” March hollered as Jack asked for the damage, “I said she had strep throat didn’t I, and I had to wait 2 and a half goddamn hours to get confirmation of that fact. If the meds weren’t behind the counter, there would’ve been no trip to that lousy—“

“Hey, Holly,” Jack approached her lying on the couch with a blanket, flipping through channels. “I got you a ginger ale.” He produced the bottle from his pocket, and she smiled with gratitude, reaching out for the green bottle and mouthing a ‘Thank you.’

Jack smoothed his hand over her sweaty noggin and ached to see Holly in such bad shape.

By this time, March had finished his rant and stood, one hand on his hips and the other running through his hair. “So how did the interview go?”

“Let’s talk about it out back,” Jack nodded, indicating the exhausted Holly.

“No,” Holly squeaked hoarsely, “Stay in here. ‘s better than TV.”

Jack obliged, took a seat at the kitchen table, and took out his reading glasses to decipher what notes he’d taken during the interview, while March chose to stand against the fridge, his arms crossed. He didn’t like missing interviews. It made him feel helpless, like he wasn’t in charge, relying on someone else to deliver the crucial details, or what they thought was crucial anyway.

“They’re a couple. David and Helen. Engaged. They planned to meet a friend for lunch on Thursday. He didn’t show. Helen called to see if he was okay. Then on Friday she made David go over to apartment to see if he was there. He wasn’t. That’s when she really freaked out and wanted to call the police. David said no,” Jack recited as if he were reading this from the daily paper.

“What’s the missing guy’s name?”

“George,” he looked down at this notes for more info, “He worked at Gilliam’s but was recently fired. They didn’t know why. David said the boss was a jerk.”

After mentioning the bar, Jack watched for any sign of recognition in March’s eyes. A part of him expected March not to know the place but another, more paranoid part saw him wrinkling his upper lip in disgust at the name. March’s actual reaction was neutral, pensive.

“Gilliam’s. That’s a gay bar by the way,” he rubbed his mustache, and the tone of his voice rose the way it did when he thought he was being clever. Jack stopped himself from saying a quick “I know” because why would he know? Why should he know? For all that March knew, he was straight and knew nothing of that side of the city. But if March knew…

“Yeah,” March continued, finally sitting down at the table with a finger of scotch to calm him from the doctor’s visit, “I’ve caught more than a couple cheating husbands there. Wives curious if their husbands really are going to the bar after work with some friends. Oh, they’re at a bar alright.”

Jack gave March’s joke an obligatory chuckle and cursed himself for getting his hopes up. March was straight. Goofy, but straight. And there was no chance that March would be interested in guys, let alone interested in him. They worked well together, spent most of their time together, and damn if it wasn’t almost assured that Jack was going to catch feelings at some point. But it was a crush. A crush on his straight coworker that would fade with time. Give it another year, and he’d be over March and back to hooking up with guys discreetly when his loneliness became too overwhelming to bear. That was only if March didn’t wise up soon and realize playing house with Jack was only a substitute for the love and attention of a woman.

“So David and Helen are friends with George. How did they meet?” March asked brightly.

Fuck. As much as March hated missing interviews, Jack hated going on interviews alone. He could only remember to ask the standard questions. In that regard, he and March had established a collective sort of consciousness where one made up for what the other lacked.

“He’s actually just David’s friend, and I didn’t ask. The guy didn’t seem too keen on me taking the case, and it felt like there were some things he wouldn’t discuss in front of his fiancé,” Jack squinted at his notepad at one phrase in particular. Three months. “They had this weird agreement, too. Something about being a couple so long they either needed to break it off or get married, so the girl went to Europe for three months to see if she really loved him or if he was just a habit.”

  
This piqued March’s interest.

“Gee, I wish I was rich enough to go gallivanting across Europe to make up my mind. How much you wanna bet David screwed around while she was gone? That’s pretty much permission to sleep with other people in the name of love.” March shook his head, incredulous and in awe, until struck with inspiration. “You think Gilliam’s plays into this?”

“You read my mind. I was gonna drop by there to do some digging on George, but it wouldn’t hurt to ask about David while we’re at it.”

“Did you get a gay vibe from him—David,” March leaned in slightly, conspirationally like maybe David might hear him.

He rolled his eyes, “If by ‘gay vibe’ you mean swishy hips and limp wrist, then no.”

“You know what I mean,” March whined. Unsatisfied with Jack's sarcasm, he drained his scotch and popped his neck, “So what time are we going to give Gilliam’s a visit?”


	3. Chapter 3

He’d tried to convince March to stay home and look after Holly, but Holly, that stubborn girl, insisted she would not be a hindrance to their case and that she’d be perfectly fine with or without their supervision. On top of that, March refused to miss out on any more details pertinent to the case. For someone who sure didn’t like working, March didn’t let Jack do much on his own. He thought it might have something to do with trust and the perceived incompetence of others, which was rich considering this was _March_ , the most surprisingly competent and predictably inept person he knew.

While Jack drove, March kept a running commentary of directions to Gilliam’s as well as previous run-ins with the patrons. As much as he wanted March to think he’d never been to the bar, there remained the fact that people might recognize Jack, and the possibility that one of his ex hook-ups might try to chat him up convinced him he needed a cover story.

“Listen, March, I know where the bar is,” Jack revealed and waited for March to protest.

“Why didn’t you say anything, huh? You let me rattle on like this, embarrassing myself. Jeez.”

“I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea,” he started, “I worked security there a while back. I mean a _while_ back. But there still might be people there who recognize me.”

This amused March, a wry side-smile cracking across his face. “You just didn’t want me to think you were—what—that you were _gay_? Fuck, man, if I know anything, I know you’re the straightest guy I’ve ever met.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“Honest to God, man. To tell you the truth, I’m actually really surprised you worked there. I thought you’d be one of those straight guys who'd put as much distance between you and that scene as possible. Not that I think you’re a gay-basher or—fuck, I don’t know, are you? Now that I think about it, a job’s a job, and—“

“I don’t hate gay guys, March.”

This seemed to put March at ease. It wasn’t until he said this that he realized March was nervous. He got especially more talkative when he was nervous, but now his composure had returned.

“Good. That’s good. That’s…” He muttered to himself and added almost as an afterthought, “I’ve got a gay uncle, and my family’s always acted like it was normal. But in a way that it’s okay for him to be gay as long as _you’re_ not gay. I don’t know how people can think two things that seem to cancel each other out, but I guess we do that all the time. How does a priest convince himself it’s okay to masturbate when the Bible says it’s a sin? And _don’t_ tell me you think they go their whole lives without masturbating. That’s insane.”

“Listen,” Jack could feel March wanted to change the topic, but they still had one glaring issue to discuss, “Gay bars aren’t really the biggest fans of cops, and Gilliam’s is no different. If they even so much as think we're up to something, they’ll kick us out. So we have to pretend to be regular customers.”

March nodded, taking in the plan, "Yeah, I've had to do my fair share of pretending." Visions of March waltzing into Gilliam's pretending to be a regular made Jack's stomach flip; what if they'd seen each other in there before? What if once they entered the bar, March would realize they'd seen each other before the Misty Mountains case? 'Too late now,' he thought, struggling to verbalize the next part of his plan.

“You've been in there. You know what the guys are like. And if you don’t want to get picked up, then I recommend we pretend to be, ya know, together.” Jack hated that his chest tightened and his head soared at the idea.

“A couple?” March clarified. “Do I have to do anything—“

“No, no, no, no, no,” Jack shut down March’s line of thinking before anything could materialize. He felt heat creeping up along his neck that would soon turn his cheeks and the rest of his face a deep ruddy color if he considered how March was going to finish that sentence. “Nothing like that. If someone tries to hit on you, just tell them we’re together. That’s all.”

“Just tell them we’re together,” March repeated, “How long have we been together? For the story, in case someone asks.”

“I don’t know. How long have we been working together?”

“Two years.”

“Then say two years.” Had they really been partners for that long? It hadn’t taken much time to consider March a friend, and his crush had set in around the summer of ’78. If a crush lasted longer than a year, was it really a crush or was it—

“How’d we meet?” March interrupted Jack’s train of thought before it became too dangerous.

“They won’t ask that, and if they do, tell ‘em the truth. I punched you in the face and broke your arm. The start of a very happy relationship.”


	4. Chapter 4

Two men stood at the entrance to Gilliam’s, a young guy wearing a shirt that was a little too tight sporting the bar’s logo and an older guy, 40s, who’d been around the block a couple times. This second guy he recognized, and by the change in the man’s posture, he recognized Jack as well.

“ _Ja_ ckie, how long has it been?” Harvey clapped him on the back and considered him fondly. They’d never… _done_ anything together, but they were friends in the loosest sense of the word, one of his only friends in this particular sphere of his life. “Too long,” he answered his own question and looked over to March. “Who is this _peach_ , huh?”

March’s eyebrows shot up, and he gestured vaguely toward himself, mouthing “Me.” He’d obviously never been described as a “peach” before, and it was having quiet an effect.

“Yes, you, honey. Let me get a good look at ya,” he manhandled March like a grandma, grabbing his shoulders and calculating his judgment of Jack’s taste. “I’ve gotta say, I didn’t think you’d go for this type, Jackie, but he _is_ cute.”

“Thanks, Harvey,” he winced inwardly, wondering how his story would hold up underneath his friend’s comments. “Have a good night, man.”

“You’re not going to ask me about _my_ luck? Oh, I see how it is,” he prodded, slapping Jack with the back of his hand.

“How is your luck,” Jack parroted at his prompting.

“I haven’t found a _beau_ like _you_ , but I can assure you, my well is far from dry.”

He didn’t know what he saw in Harvey that had initiated their casual friendship. Maybe it was that while many guys loathed femininity in men and others hammed up a flamboyant personality to fit in, Harvey was just Harvey. Completely genuine and far from fake or overly macho.

“Glad to hear it,” Jack smiled, and Harvey rolled his eyes.

“I know you two just want to have a good night. Sorry for holding you up.” He’d nearly let them through the door when he grabbed March’s shoulders. “I never got your name, sweetheart.”

“Uh, Holland.” March had forgotten the cover he’d used when investigating unfaithful husbands and stupidly muttered his real name.

“ _Holl_ and,” Harvey repeated, grinning and shooting Jack a scandalous look.

“Take care of yourself,” he advised and officially entered Gilliam’s.

The bar was just as Jack had remembered it. Taking up the middle of the space was a rectangular bar surrounded by metal stools. Although there were a couple highly decorated individuals, eye shadow applied in high archs, the crowd that dominated the various tables situated on the ground floor up through the shallow second floor which hung over like a balcony were pretty normal looking guys. Except for the lack of women, the whole place looked like a regular bar.

“Sorry about that,” Jack inclined his head toward March’s ear so that he might hear him over the din of conversations and pop music. “They tend to assume everyone here is gay.”

“Fair assumption,” March delivered, looking at the crowd, swearing he recognized one or two of the guys from his years on the force.

March trailed Jack as they made their way to the bar to talk to one of the bartenders.

“Scotch,” March raised his voice as the bartender in a white tank top craned forward to catch his order.

“Ginger ale,” Jack requested as the bartender turned to him. The thought of ginger ale reminded him of Holly, alone at home on the couch, coughing and covering the living room in a sea of used tissues.

With a glass safely in hand, solidifying his reason for staying at the bar, March decided to dive straight into questioning.

“Hey, I thought George was working tonight,” his eyes narrowed in concern.

The bartender stopped his stream of constant movement to consider March’s comment. “George was fired about a week ago. Sorry, man.”

“What?” March screeched in disbelief, “How? He was my favorite bartender!”

“Obviously you haven’t been here in a while. There was a whole scene. God, you should’ve seen it,” he recounted the details from memory, “Gill accused George of stealing in front of the whole bar and ordered him to leave.”

“You think he really did it?” Jack added.

“I don’t know. All that matters is what Gill thinks you did, and then you’re out on your ass,” the bartender finished his story and turned around to address another customer.

March sipped at his scotch, decided to down it, and then grabbed Jack’s ginger ale as a chaser.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Setting both empty glasses on the bar in front of him, March called for the bartender.

“Uh, refill please.”

“How do you not need to piss all the fucking time?”

“Who says I don’t?” March retorted. In the middle of the bartender refilling his scotch, March’s line of questioning persisted. “Is Gill here tonight? I’d like to put in a word for George if I could.”

At this the bartender scoffed, “Good luck with that. You’d be better off convincing Reagan to include gay rights in his political platform.” After laughing at his own joke, the bartender’s face drew into a confused frown, “Speaking of, I haven’t seen Gill for a while. He’s usually here on Saturdays. For fresh meat,” he clarified.

“Maybe you could tell us his address,” Jack started and hurried to finish before it sounded too suspicious, “so that we could tell him how much we miss our favorite bartender.”

Even March knew this was a very shaky line of reasoning, but he smiled and held his breath just the same. The bartender gave them a strange look and started to shake his head when a young kid a couple seats from them piped up.

“I can show you where he lives.”

The kid was about 20, wearing a white t-shirt and jeans. A simple, masculine look to some but also one you could pull off if you were poor.

“Yeah?” Jack asked, and the kid nodded.

“I can show you where he lives--as long as there’s something in it for me.”

For one so young, the kid looked grim, like he knew what it was to be kept and subsequently thrown away. Just as Jack took his weight off the counter top, the bartender set down a new drink in front of March.

“Scotch. Courtesy of that guy,” the bartender pointed, “Says his name is Ethan and that you have a nice ass.”

March looked at the glass as if it were a cactus that had suddenly sprouted out of the bar. “If I drink this, does it mean I have to talk to him?”

“March, you’re not going to drink that.”

“I know, I know. But _hypothetically_...”

With or without taking a drink, Ethan rose from his seat and approached March, eyeing Jack and squaring his shoulders, ready for the challenge.

“I hope you got my message,” Ethan wore a black shirt that emphasized the size of his arms. He directed all his attention at March, intentionally excluding Jack from the conversation. March couldn’t get a comprehensible word out, so Jack stepped up, putting himself directly next to March.

“Sorry, man. He’s taken.” Even though he knew this was all an act, he felt a rush of pride saying those words: _He’s taken._

This hardly stopped Ethan. He looked Jack up and down and grinned like an asshole. “I’m sorry. Was I talking to you?”

“He’s not interested.”

March shot him wide, scared eyes, telling him silently to get them the fuck out of this goddamn situation.

“Oh yeah?” Ethan stepped closer to Jack. “Says who? You?” They were about the same height, which intimidated Jack a little since the guy was younger and more fit, but his instincts said this guy, for all his flashy muscles, couldn’t fight for shit.

“Yeah, _I_ say so.”

“What, the guy can’t speak for himself? How about it, you interested?” Ethan propped his arm on the bar, crowding March. All March could manage to do was shake his head, look at Jack for help, and let out a pitiful “Uhhhhh.”

Because this fucking bozo wasn’t getting the hint, Jack grabbed Ethan’s shoulder and pushed him away out of March’s breathing space. Predictably, Ethan pulled a punch, and March dove over the bar to avoid contact, showering the floor with broken glass. The punch connected with Jack’s jaw, but he swore that was the only hit Ethan would get in. Jack pushed the guy against the bar, using his momentum and his leg to trip Ethan and knock him to the floor. Before any more damage could be dealt, Harvey and the young guy in the Gilliam’s t-shirt had rushed up and did their best to restrain Jack and Ethan. The young guy escorted Ethan outside, and when he tried to lunge at Jack once more, the young guy did his best to hold him back, calling for back-up.

“Sorry, but you gotta go, Jackie,” Harvey clasped Jack on the back good-naturedly, hoping Jack would cooperate and simply leave the bar.

“We’re leaving,” he called to March, who had just managed to rise from his journey to the liquor-stained floor. He flung one leg over the counter and slid over, following Jack and giving Ethan a cautious glance or two. It wasn’t until after they found themselves outside in the autumn night air that he realized the kid from the bar had followed in hopes of earning a quick 20 bucks.


	5. Chapter 5

“If we’re a couple, no one will hit on us. Solid plan, Healy,” March jibed climbing into the passenger’s seat.

“It was a good idea. That guy was just an asshole,” Healy waited for their guest to climb into the backseat and give them an address.

“Maybe the problem is I’m just too irresistible. That’s it,” he lit a fresh cigarette and realized they had a passenger. “Who the fuck are you?”

Jack chose to ignore the first remark. “He’s showing us where Gill lives.”

He turned to consider the kid who desperately needed a haircut, “What do you think? Am I irresistible?

“Uh—“

“Because I think if two guys fight over me, that means I’m a fucking _catch_ ,” March looked the kid up and down and returned to his cigarette.

***

The kid’s name was Chris. March had tried to convince Chris to take only $15 for his help but tossed in the extra $5 as long as he used that for a haircut.

Chris had directed them to a place that didn’t look like much on the outside but still had a doorman and was probably more than March and Jack could afford combined.

“From things he’s said, I think he has more than one place,” Chris elaborated, “This is where he took me at least.”

While Jack considered the building, March turned to Chris, “Not to get too personal, Chris. I swear I have your best interests at heart, but why don’t you have a real job? This obviously wears on you. I can tell by that look on your face when you talk about him,” he pointed in the direction of the Gill’s condo, “Get a job at Denny’s for chrissakes. You can put me down as a reference. That’s ‘Holland March.’ The Nice Guys Detective Agency.”

This baffled Chris. He was certainly used to people frowning upon his lifestyle but had never encountered anyone who’d be willing to use their name as a reference. “Thanks.” He said hesitantly. “Gill’s place is fifth floor, room 504.”

***

“Will you actually remember this kid if someone calls you for a reference?”

“Hmm?” March pressed the up button on the elevator.

“I mean,” Jack continued, more than a little pissed off at March, “Did you do that because you’re drunk or because you actually give a shit?”

With a _ding_ the elevator arrived, and the two of them boarded the thankfully uninhabited space.

After a second of reflection, March nodded his head, “Both. Probably both. And if you’re worried about my memory, let me tell you I’ve got a great memory. For important things. Ask me what happens in Jaws, and you’re shit out of luck. But if it concerns a case? I don’t even need to write it down. I don’t know how your mind works, but I never stop.”

“Never stop what?”

“Never stop. I’m thinking and thinking and making new connections.” He spins his fingers in a circle to demonstrate this thought process, “Right now it’s ‘I just gave $20 to a kid who relies on hook-ups for a place to sleep. Maybe that life isn’t sustainable, and I helped him out by giving him a piece of fatherly advice. Speaking of, he probably doesn’t have a father, let alone a family who’ll accept him and set him straight, so to say, so I made a judgment call that I won’t forget.’ I’ll probably even have a nightmare about him, too, which will make me feel guilty. And if there’s one thing I’m sure about, it’s that guilt is one of the most motivating factors in life.”

For a second, Jack had a window into March’s mind, and he realized maybe he wasn’t a PI completely for the money. Maybe this was his chance to help people and assuage some all-encompassing guilt that constantly plagued his life. He would never be able to help enough people to make the guilt stop, but it was a cycle, much like drinking, which Jack fully understood. He remembered a book he read during his time in The Program. _The Little Prince_.

‘Why do you drink?’ ‘To forget that I drink.’

There was no coherent response he had to March’s speech, and he felt that even March regretted revealing that much about himself. Most of their relationship relied on humor, so Jack opted for a joke.

“You really don’t remember what happened in Jaws? It’s in the title. It’s about a shark.”

“Ha-ha.”

The elevator stopped and let them out on the fifth floor. They walked to where Chris said Gill’s place was and stopped. What were they going to do? Knock on the door in the middle of the night and ask if he knew where George was? Both Jack and March froze in front of the door.

“Beauty before age,” Jack motioned, beating March to a quip. “If you’re so irresistible, you should probably do all the talking.”

March shot him an unamused glare and knocked on the door. A few tense seconds dragged into 30 seconds.

“Maybe he’s busy?” Jack proposed. March knocked again, waited 10 more seconds and reached for the doorknob.

“Wait, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Checking if the door’s locked,” March defended his decision, “If someone’s in there, then we can just say we’re drunk and mistaken. But if there’s nobody home, I’ll peep around, and you keep watch out here.”

“What happens if I see him coming? How do I warn you? You’re stuck in there.”

“I don’t know. Talk in a real loud voice about being a male escort. I’ll hide, and when he’s preoccupied, I’ll sneak out.” March didn’t have time for Jack’s logical hypotheticals and opened the door, slipping in before Jack could stop him.

“March!” He scolded in a harsh whisper and then resigned himself to his fate.

Not a minute passed before March was back in the hallway, looking like he was about to puke.

“What,” Jack tried to draw a word out of his partner, “Is it bad? Is he there?”

March nodded vigorously.

“Did he see you?”

March shook his head nauseously.

Jack turned to leave, but March was still glued to the wall. “What? What’s wrong? Let’s get out of here. He could’ve heard the door close.”

“He’s—he’s—dead!” March shrieked in a hoarse whisper.

As always, this case wasn’t going to be as simple as Jack thought.


	6. Chapter 6

March had wanted to flea the scene after wiping the doorknob of prints, but Jack reminded him that the doorman knew they weren’t residents of the building and would certainly point them out to the police. They’d gone downstairs, phoned the police, and waited for them to arrive for questioning.

The cops asked predictable questions: What were you doing here? Did you know the victim?

Jack explained they had been hired to find someone and had an idea that he might be with Gilliam. They’d knocked and tried the door. "When we found the door unlocked," Jack reasoned, "he figured there might be something wrong and went inside to help." March listened to Jack’s testimony and tailored his to fit. After printing March to differentiate his prints from any others in the apartment, the two of them were free to leave. Neither had any desire to pursue the case any further that night and returned to March’s house. Jack idled in his car momentarily and decided to follow March inside to check on Holly before driving back to The Comedy Store.

Perhaps March expected him to follow because he left the door open for him. Jack could only see the static of the television in the dark house, so he turned on the kitchen light to find March waving at him to turn it back off. March knelt beside the couch felt Holly’s head and once satisfied she didn’t have a fever, turned off the TV and walked to the fridge for a beer.

His eyes adjusted to the dark, and using the sparse light from the neighborhood lights outside to make out the shape of the couch, he considered Holly and contemplated kissing her forehead before March shot him a strained whisper.

“Hey, what are you doing? Come on.” He gestured for him to follow, and they made their way to the backyard.

Sliding the glass door behind him shut, Jack joined March at the table on the back deck. March had shed his jacket and was already busy filling up the ashtray when Jack took a seat.

An ambient light source streaked March’s hair with yellow and left his face in muted shadow. He alternated between his cigarette and beer a couple times, and Jack knew March wouldn’t be the one to break the silence.

“Is this about the case?”

Blowing a thin stream of smoke into the night air, March sighed and squinted in the dark at Jack, trying to gauge if he was serious or just wanted to fill the space between them with words to distract from the intimacy that built between two people simply sharing a moment. Jack had his hands laced in front of him, unconsciously guarding him from something March couldn’t see.

“Can’t a guy just have his friend over for a drink?”

“March, I’m not drinking.”

“You can leave if you want.”

Jack supposed March was just as good at getting to know people as he was. They always had a third party between them whether that was Holly, a client, or a case. When they were alone, discussing those subjects always prevented them from feeling that they were the only two present. Only under the pretense of doing something else did they ever reveal personal information. But here they were. Alone and very aware that they sat next to each other for no other reason than that they wanted to.

They avoided each other’s gaze, choosing instead to look out over the yard and into the distant city lights. Jack supposed guys drank together to give them an excuse for this camaraderie, and with the absence of drink, it made the whole situation indefensible. Men couldn’t sit together just because they desired the presence of one another. Jack felt the chasm between the two of them as they pointedly refused to look at each other, and his heart ached as he imagined reaching out for March’s hand. Pretending to stretch his neck, he chanced a glance at March and found that he’d been watching him.

Jack took this as a sign he should leave.

“I think I should be going. It’s late,” he stood and pushed in his chair across the concrete deck.

“It’s only late if you have somewhere to be in the morning.” March retorted.

“Don’t we have some place to be in the morning?”

He blew out another puff of smoke as if that were a vital part of his response, “That’s where you’re wrong,” March stood and ground out what was left of his cigarette in the ashtray. “Last time I checked, Gilliam’s doesn’t open ‘til 4 in the afternoon.”

“So that’s your plan. Sleep all day.”

“It’s not like we have any other leads,” March shrugged and finished off his beer. He craned his neck forward, inspecting Jack’s face, “You wanna tell me something.”

“No.”

“It wasn’t a question. You want to tell me something.” March grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair and folded it over his arm, “I don’t believe in palm readers or any of that mystic crap, but I _do_ believe you can read someone’s face. So. _Ja_ ckie. What do you want to tell me?” Hearing March use Harvey’s intonation of his name made him feel nervous like March was on the cusp of figuring something out if he hadn’t already.

“I don’t know what you want to me say,” Jack raised his hands in a sign of surrender and made sure to keep his face an indecipherable mask, “but it seems like you know, so you tell _me_. What do I want to say, March?”

He scoffed at the way Jack turned this back on him. “I’m not a mindreader. I’m just telling you what I see, and I see a man with a lot on his mind. That’s all.” March passed him to get to the sliding glass doors and patted him on the back as he left. Jack showed himself out and spent the rest of the night wondering if March’s question had anything to do with the subject matter of their current case.

“ _I’m thinking and thinking and making new connections.”_ March’s voice came back to him, and Jack thought that maybe, just maybe, March had made one connection too many for his comfort.


	7. Chapter 7

He woke at 11 after a night of restlessness. Even his normal routine of sleeping with the television on as a form of white noise had failed to distract his mind and soothe him to sleep. More and more, the emptiness of his apartment suffocated him. He’d been lonely before The Nice Guys, but then again, he’d been lonely his whole life. It had been a permanent fixture of Jackson Healy’s routine since childhood, but now that he’d found a family—an honest to god _family_ —his moments of isolation were only magnified in comparison to the times spent with March and Holly. He fit in with the Marches as a sort of uncle, which he could live with as long as he was _something_ to them.

In the moment between sleep and reality, he nearly expected Holly to be laying on the couch in the living room.

Dragging himself to the sink to brush his teeth, he read his word-a-day calendar. ‘Unrequited,’ he recited in his head and spit into the sink. Fuck this calendar. He knew what unrequited meant. He acted out his little routine of feeding the fish, buttoning up a leisure shirt, slipping on his jacket, and gathering his necessities lined up on the counter lest he forget. A thought quicker than his defenses captured his imagination.

“Here. You forgot these,” March said, squeezing a pair of brass knuckles into Jack’s hand and giving him a peck on the lips like this happened every day.

He shook off the fantasy and made his way to a diner down the street for some lunch.

***

At noon, he found himself parking in the March household’s driveway. He sorted through his key ring to find the one to the front door and let himself in. An array of used glasses lined the kitchen counter, and it looked like someone had tried to tidy up the living room by pushing all the used tissues into one pile so that they weren’t scattered everywhere. He set the bag of pancakes and eggs ordered to go on the counter. If March seriously slept until 3, that meant Holly had to fend for herself, and he didn’t like the idea of her surviving off toast all day.

He glanced around the house without being what he thought was _too_ sneaky and found Holly on the back deck, wrapped in a blanket and reading a book.

“Hey, Mr. Healy,” Holly greeted him with a nasal, raspy voice.

“Hey, Holly. How’re you feeling?”

“Better than yesterday,” she managed, bookmarking her page and closing her book on the table, “I couldn’t sit inside anymore. That couch was driving me crazy.”

Jack sat down and found several more cigarettes smashed in the ashtray than he remembered being there last night.

“I’ve got some food in there on the counter if you’re hungry,” he pointed with his thumb back inside the house.

Holly shook her head. “Not hungry. Just trying to stay hydrated,” she drew a glass to her chapped lips and took a gulp. “You here for dad? He’s still sleeping.” She said this as if Jack knew this fact already.

“No, I’m here…” Why was he here? Because he had nowhere else to go. That’s why. “I’m here to see you. Check up on you to make sure you’re not dying.”

She smiled, but behind that was something melancholy, “Thanks. You know I really appreciate you looking after me and my dad.” She reached out for his hand on the table and gave it a loving squeeze, trying to communicate how much he meant to her and fully aware there weren’t words for the stability that he brought to her life. He was glad over the years he’d known her that she hadn’t lost the ability to be straightforward and genuine. That had never been March’s strong suit, and he wondered if Holly had inherited those qualities from her mother. They sat there a second, holding hands, when Holly withdrew hers to adjust her blanket around her.

“You know…” She started, “You can wake him up if you want to. If he gets pissed, you can blame me.”

“I’m not blaming anything on you,” Jack assured her and subsequently felt the weight of her comment. He knew he could handle March, but he didn’t want Holly thinking she had to put up with her dad when he was drunk and unbearable or hungover and miserable.

***

March’s room smelled, and if March had been a normal human with a working sense of smell, that would’ve been why he found March asleep in the bathtub, fully clothed, cheek resting on the tub’s cool porcelain. Jack found a bottle hanging from one of his hands and pried it loose, screwing on the cap and placing the liquor next to March’s toothbrush.

“Hey,” Jack thought of that old trick where you tossed a bucket of water on someone and immediately realized how much good that’d do him with March sleeping up to his neck in lukewarm water. He shook his shoulder and watched March’s red-rimmed eyes jerk open. The first look on March’s face before bewilderment was shame. Shame that Jack had to see him like this. “I have a hard time falling asleep, too, but this is overkill.” In the time it took Jack to deliver a joke, March had gathered his defenses and moved to extricate himself from the tub. Jack offered his arm, but this only seemed to piss off March.

“I’ve got it,” he said as he placed one slippery foot on the ground and nearly face-planted had Jack not been there to catch him.

***

Jack waited at the kitchen table, reading a stray newspaper while March got dressed. When he looked up over his reading glasses to see March finally show up for the day, he got an eye-full. March wore a pair of jeans he'd never seen, a white tank top, and an unbuttoned over shirt. Jack’s eyes trailed down his chest to rest on March’s wedding ring. Resounding guilt settled in his gut as he felt March’s wife watching him ogle her husband.

Inspecting the take-out bag on the counter, March eyed the scrambled eyes contemptuously and settled on the pancakes.

“I didn’t know what you’d be in the mood for,” Jack indicated the Styrofoam boxes, and March’s eyebrows shot up.

“You bought this?”

“Yeah. Where’d you think it came from?”

“Holly or I don’t know,” March plopped a stack of three pancakes on a plate and searched for the syrup. “You didn’t have to bring us breakfast.” He delivered the comment to no one in particular, preparing the coffee maker.

“No need to be so excited about it.” Jack folded the paper and put it aside, pocketing his reading glasses.

“I’m serious,” March drizzled syrup over the still-warm pancakes and ate at the counter, “I can look after myself.”

Jack didn’t know where this hostility stemmed from, but he had an idea that maybe he was crossing some sort of boundary. He’d never seemed annoyed at Jack bringing food over before, but this could’ve been the last straw a long time coming. 

“Sorry. Won’t happen again.” Looking at March’s haggard face, he realized the problem wasn’t with Jack at all. March was ashamed. He wanted to keep up the idea he could function normally, but that idea goes out the window when people start taking care of you because you’re an unstable alcoholic.

When he finished the top pancake, March decided he had enough energy to deal with whatever was happening today. “What brings you here so early? Was it just breakfast or…?” He raised his fork as a punctuation.

“I wanted to talk about last night.” That sounded too personal. Explain. “About finding Gill dead and everything.”

“There’s not much to talk about. The guy’s dead. That’s not our case.”

“Yeah, but do you think George killed him?”

March’s eyes informed Jack that he was quite possibly the stupidest man on Earth, “Our job is to find George. If he killed somebody, that’s out of our hands.” The coffee maker beeped to tell March everything was ready, and March poured himself a cup of black coffee.

“If he _did_ kill him, that’s why he could be hiding,” Jack advocated for pursuing this line of inquiry. “The guy fired him on a whim, and he took revenge. Now he’s hiding out with somebody until the police make an arrest.”

“Who is he hiding with?” March asked flippantly.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.”

“You’re the one who saw the crime scene. Were there any indicators—“

“What I saw was a guy who’d been dead for a few days, and I have no intention of reliving that,” March pushed his breakfast away at the thought of Gill dead and bloated and naked.

“Fine. We won’t talk about that anymore,” Jack yielded. “What I _do_ know is we have to go back to Gilliam’s tonight. Ask more questions. This time about David.”

“Why David? We just need to know George’s friends,” March rested his chin in his palm, bouncing his leg and craving a cigarette.

“I feel like we’re missing something. Did David meet George _at_ Gilliam’s, or were they friends outside of that and George just happened to work at a gay bar? Were they lovers or just friends?”

“It’s obvious.”

Jack recoiled at March’s arrogance disguised as confidence, “It’s obvious?”

“David started going to gay bars when Helen went to Europe because maybe he was unsure if he was straight or not. He meets George. They hit it off. But then Helen’s coming back, and they sure as hell can’t stay friends so they split. By chance they see each other in passing, and Helen pokes her nose in where it doesn’t belong. George isn’t really missing. David told him not to show up to lunch because he doesn’t want George and Helen meeting. I bet if we went to his apartment right now we’d find him.”

“That’s your theory?”

“That’s reality,” March sipped his coffee decisively, and Jack came to the conclusion that either March was right on the money or absolutely, 100% wrong.


	8. Chapter 8

“We’re just here to get George’s address.”

“And a spare key,” March added, “We want to take a look at his apartment, get a better idea of who this guy is.”

David nodded, closed his door, and was back quickly with an address scribbled on a sheet of paper as well as a small, silver key.

On their way to the car, March grinned triumphantly.

“What? What’s so funny?” Jack couldn’t make heads or tails of March’s mood.

“I’m right,” he said, holding up the spare key and opening the passenger side door.

Jack studied the address and turned the keys in the ignition. He wasn’t in the mood to play March’s “Tell me more!” game.

“Don’t you wanna know how I know?”

They pulled off down the street, and Jack decided to entertain him. “Fine. How do you know your theory is right?”

“Because of this!” March held the key in front of him as if that should answer all his questions, “Why does he have a key to George’s apartment if they _weren’t_ sleeping together?”

“I have a key to your house, March. How is this any different?”

“Because it is!” March whined, “We work together, and you’re over at my place all the time for _work shit_. Unless David and George were business associates, then there’s really no reason why he should have a key.”

Work shit.

“So that’s why you think I’m at your house so much? Work shit?”

“That was just a generalization. What I’m saying is it’s _different_ —“

“It’s not because we’re friends or anything?” He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t let this go especially after March acting so pissy at breakfast. “I thought we were friends, but I guess I was wrong about that.”

March shoved the key into his pocket and rested his elbow on the windowsill, shielding his brow with his palm. Whether March was angry or embarrassed, Jack didn’t know, but they rode in silence to George’s apartment just the same.

***

Opening the door to the apartment, they expected—well—an apartment. Instead, they discovered more of an extended room. Taking up half the room was the bed, and then the other half consisted of a table overflowing with papers and wine bottles in addition to a small sink and stove. Jack hoped George had never attempted to cook anything in this death trap.

“David probably called him right after we left,” March hypothesized, “so that he wouldn’t be home when we arrived.’

While March inspected the table, Jack took a good look at the nightstand, finding a little photostrip shoved inside a book, the kind of picture you’d get from a photo booth at the mall. The people in the photograph were David and who he assumed to be George, a tan-skinned, dark haired man with captivating eyes. All four photos showed the two men grinning and shoved together close as if they had a secret no one else could guess.

“Are you gonna tell me they’re just friends now?” March craned over Jack’s shoulder.

“Say I believe you and they really are lovers,” Jack admitted, “Where’s your evidence that David and George are coordinating his disappearance?”

“We wait,” March suggested, taking a seat at the cramped kitchen table. “If he shows up, I’m right. If he doesn’t show up, you’re right.”

Jack lifted a pile of books and magazines off a second chair and sat down, placing the pile on top of a taller pile next to the wall.

***

Over the next two hours, March tinkered with a radio he found on the floor, trying to find a clear signal through the static, finally giving up when all he could manage was a disco station, and deciding to smoke through a pack of cigarettes he extricated from his jacket pocket. Jack found a Kurt Vonnegut book that looked promising and discovered it had “Property of David Blankenship” written on the inside of the back cover, only adding more credence to the theory that David had spent an inordinate amount of time in George’s company.

Jack was only slightly invested in _A Breakfast of Champions_ when March’s mood went South.

“He’s not coming,” March hated to be wrong. “Who am I kidding? No one’s been in this apartment for days.” He fought to put his jacket back on, and Jack nearly creased his page when he realized he was most certainly not going to be back in this apartment to read the rest.

Tossing the book on one of the many stacks situated around the apartment, Jack rubbed his face and considered March, “Why do you say that? You were so sure.”

“Well, I’m wrong,” March admitted. “Look at the dishes. There’s food on them from two, three days ago maybe? That’s not normal, bachelor neglect. I noticed it a while ago, but I didn’t want to say anything because I wanted to be right.”

“So we wasted two hours because of your pride?”

“Yeah.”

Sighing with frustration, Jack looked at his watch. 4:03PM. “At least Gilliam’s is open.”

***

They rode in silence to the bar. March tapped his cigarette ash out the window as they drove. Jack didn’t know what had originally caused March’s bad mood. Waking up hungover was enough to do the trick usually, but he felt there was more to the root of this than just alcohol.

Approaching the entrance, they saw two familiar faces: Harvey and the young bouncer guy. Jack tried to avoid Harvey’s gaze, but that was impossible considering he held the power to deny them entrance to the bar.

“Sorry Jackie. No can do. Not after last night.” Harvey didn’t look like he enjoyed turning his friend away.

“Can I come in? It wasn’t me who got into a fight.” March pointed out, and Harvey nodded, letting him pass.

“Where are you going?”

“To get a drink.” And he disappeared into the bar.

“Why are you back here, huh? I don’t see you for months, and suddenly I see you two days in a row? Something’s up,” Harvey prodded, feeling like Jack was hiding something from him.

He didn’t know what possessed him to tell the truth. Maybe he felt that confessing to Harvey of his own volition might clear the air and make things right. The possibility was slim, but he didn’t feel like lying at this point would get him anywhere.

“Listen, Harvey. Me and March…we’re private investigators.” Jack stopped Harvey before he could respond, “And you don’t have to worry about going in and kicking him out. He really is just in there for a drink.”

“And I suppose you two aren’t even a couple either?” Harvey inferred, and Jack shook his head.

“He doesn’t even _know_.”

“Know _what._ That you’re _gay?_ Oh, honey.” To Jack’s surprise, Harvey didn’t look angry at all, just disappointed.

“We’re on a case,” Jack chose to avoid Harvey’s pity and get straight to business. “We’re looking for a guy named George. Used to be a bartender here.”

“You’re not with those cops, are you?” Harvey clammed up, and Jack twisted his face in confusion.

“What cops?”

“They came by last night. About 3am, asking us when was the last time we’d seen Gill. They wouldn’t tell us why they were here or anything.”

“Gill’s dead,” Jack revealed, and Harvey recoiled in horror, “We went to his place looking for George, and March found him dead.”

“You don’t think George…” Harvey started.

“I don’t even know the guy, so I don’t know what he’s capable of. And no, we’re not with the cops. We’re looking for him on behalf of his friend David. You don’t happen to know him by chance?”

“Everyone knows David. Well, _knew_ David,” Harvey laughed nervously and looked over at the young guy standing on the other side of the door as if searching for a sign he should stop talking, “I haven’t seen him since George was fired. I guess he doesn't have a reason to pop in anymore if he's gone, does he? I'm getting ahead of myself. A few months back, an older guy named Jacques brought him in, introduced him as his ‘writer friend.’ We thought he was straight. We thought George was straight too until the two of them spoke to each other. You know. All blushes and sleepy eyes. Then again, maybe you don't know. After that, it was obvious. Everyone was invested in them because we knew it was doomed to fail. I mean two guys who think they’re straight start sleeping together? There’s got to be some conflict there.”

Harvey couldn’t help but tell Jack the whole story. Habits of a gossip died hard.

“Do you know where this Jacques guy lives? Maybe George is shacked up with him.”

“Oh, he _wishes_ ,” Harvey rolled his eyes, but Jack was serious.

“It’s worth a shot. We’ve got no other leads.”

“Sorry, Jackie,” he squeezed Jack’s arm as an apology, “I don’t know where he lives. And I wouldn’t want to. Guy’s kind of a creep if you ask me. Always chatting up the youth—ya know, the barely legal sort.”

“I know where he lives,” the young guy cracked his silence for the first time, and both Harvey and Jack turned to him in unison. His expression revealed that he’d done things he wasn’t proud of. “And you’re right. He is a creep. I wouldn’t be helping you if he wasn’t.”

After scrawling down the address in his notebook, Harvey allowed Jack into the bar to fetch March, who had downed an indeterminate amount of liquor. March stumbled to the car, and Jack meant to follow him when Harvey pulled at his sleeve.

“Just for your information, that Holland boy of yours isn’t straight.”

“How do you—“

“Shh, trust me.” Harvey said with a wink, zipping his lips, locking them, and throwing away the key.


	9. Chapter 9

“Have you met Harvey before?” Jack chanced, thinking about his friend’s strange comment. How would Harvey know March wasn’t straight? Was he just fucking with him? No, he wasn’t cruel enough to get his hopes up like that.

“Hm? Why?” March managed drowsily.

“He said something that made me think he _knows_ you. I could be wrong…”

“Maybe he’s seen me around,” March answered, “I don’t know.”

“When was the last time you were at Gilliam’s?”

“January.”

This floored Jack. He expected him to say something in the realm of years, not _months_. “March, no-fault divorce has been around since 1970. You expect me to believe you were investigating a ‘cheating husband’ case in January? Of _1979_?”

“Ya see,” March began, “I don’t get what the problem is. The wife wanted me to get pictures of her husband so that she could blackmail him into getting a bigger payout from the divorce. He wanted the house. She wanted the house. Blah, blah, blah.”

“So you're saying you went on a _secret_ _case_ without me, and this is the first time I’m hearing about it? How many times have you taken cases without telling me?”

“It’s not a big deal,” March waved him off, and Jack pulled into the nearest parking lot, which turned out to belong to some taco place named Naugles.

“March, we’re partners, and partners don’t lie to each other about this shit. Do you think I’d lie to you?” Jack felt the hypocrisy roll off his tongue and held back the bile in his stomach.

“Yes!” March shouted, and in the silence that followed, Jack wondered just how much March knew.

“What do you think I’m lying about?” Fumbling with leading questions, Jack still couldn’t admit what he needed to say out right.

“That’s it. I’m walking,” March announced and exited the vehicle. Jack followed, calling from the across the parking lot.

“Hey, hey! March what the fuck are you doing?” He saw a family shocked at his language walking to a nearby station wagon, so Jack waved politely and rolled his eyes behind their backs at how prude some people could be. “March, you don’t even know where you’re going!”

“Watch me!” He screeched in return.

After about 5 minutes sitting the car alone, Jack heard the passenger side door open and didn’t have to look over to know March had realized he did not in fact know where he was going. As Jack started the car again and pulled back into traffic, March mumbled a nasal confession.

“There’s not a secret case. There was never a secret case. I thought you’d have figured it all out by now.” He sulked, slouched way down in his seat. “Yeah, I did have a couple, pre-1970 cases that required me to visit Gilliam’s. That’s how I learned about it in the first place.” March swallowed hard and sat up a little straighter. “But then Rose died, and it was so _hard_ with women. They all wanted promises and chivalry. The guys…9 times out of 10, the guys just wanted sex. I don’t know how it is with you, but it was only ever about that for me.”

Jack kept his eyes on the road and nodded. Why was he nodding? There was nothing he could say in response to what March had just told him. From how he explained it, sleeping with guys hadn’t had anything to do with attraction. He struck out with women and fulfilled his needs with men. And as long as Jack didn’t say anything to the contrary, that’s what March would believe about him as well. Just two straight guys desperate enough to look for comfort in… _unconventional_ places.

He didn't think that anything could make him feel worse than knowing March was straight, but knowing that March was straight  _and_ had slept with men seemed so much worse somehow.

***

Arriving at Jacques’ place a little past 5, Jack considered the old brick building and its quaint little balconies holding various potted plants. Set against the evening sky, the scene would’ve been picturesque under any other circumstances. For now, Jack and March made their way to the apartment’s front door only to find they needed a key or to be acquainted with one of the residents listed on the various call boxes to gain entrance.

Without thinking, March pressed the button next to Jacques M. and waited for a response.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Getting us inside the building.”

A speaker crackled to life with the voice of someone surprisingly _not_ French.

“Hello? Who is it?”

Jack looked at March with panic in his eyes and sprang to action, holding down the button near the speaker to answer. “Flower delivery.”

“Ah, how nice. Do they say who they’re from?”

“Someone named Gilliam?” Jack continued his charade and hoped the man would buzz them up without anymore questions.

“Gilliam! Oh, how nice. Bring them right up then.”

A harsh buzzer indicated they could open the door, and the two of them entered the building with a sigh of relief.

“Knew you could do it,” March sprang up the stairs jauntily.

“Do what?” Jack behind, not possessing March’s drunk, youthful energy.

“When we first met, you pretended to be a messenger’s service. You’re quick on your feet.” At the mention of “feet,” March slipped on a step and banged his shin into a wall, creating a knee-sized hole in the plaster. “Fuck!” He squeaked in a restrained shout. Jack helped him up by the shoulders. Finally, they made it to the third floor and knocked on the door, while March hopped on one foot and tried to shake off the pain.

A portly man, older than Jack, with a scrubby mustache and a thinning head of hair answered the door and, at the sight of March, momentarily forgot about the flowers.

“Oh dear, what seems to be the matter?”

“Nothing,” Jack provided, “He just tripped on his way up here. A little clumsy.” He smiled at March, who shot him a seething glare.

“I _do_ hope you didn’t drop the flowers.” He peered behind Jack and March for the nonexistent delivery.

“Sorry about the lie," Jack explained, "We just needed to get up here to ask you if you’ve seen a man named George.”

Jacques’ face blanched. A noise from the apartment caught March’s attention, and he lunged forward past Jacques, diving forward and catching a man around the waist before he could make it to the fire escape. Jack grabbed a hold of the man’s arm in a much more secure grip than March’s and found himself face to face with the tan-skinned, dark haired man from the photo booth strip. George.


	10. Chapter 10

“I’ll let you go if you settle down,” Jack told George, twisting his arm behind his back in a way that made March squeeze his left fist in anticipation of pain.

“Who are you guys?” George grunted.

“If you do not unhand him, I shall call the police!” Jacques picked up the phone receiver as if it should be a threat, and Jack stifled a laugh at the sight.

“You don’t want to call the police. Isn’t that right, George?”

March had collapsed on the antique couch, huffing, “Let him go. Our job was to find him. Not detain him.” He picked at the doilies decorating the sides. Jacques swatted at his hand, so he folded his arms across his chest in an attempt to not touch anything.

As Jack released George from his grip, he shrugged his shoulders in an “if you say so, March” motion, and Jacques had forgotten why he was holding the phone in the first place.

George rubbed his arm, considered making a break for the exit, and decided to find out if his worst fears had been realized. “What did he do?”

“Who?”

“David.”

Jacques closed his apartment door and set the receiver back in its cradle, “George, I demand you tell me what’s going on this instant!”

“David hired us to find you because you didn’t show up to lunch. There. We’re all on the same page.” March blurted out, causing possibly more confusion than there had been before.

Walking over to a small, round bar, George poured himself a drink. March moved to ask for a drink, and Jack shot him a knowing look that told him this was neither the time nor the place. After a pensive sip, George addressed his small crowd, “The Queen is dead, isn’t he?”

“If you mean Gilliam, then yes,” Jack inclined his head, caught Jacques’ horrorstricken face, and tacked on an extra, “Sorry for your loss.”

March leaned forward on his knees, “How did you know?”

“David,” he began, feeling how the name sounded in his mouth and noting how much it had changed over the past few weeks, “Gilliam found out David had a fiancé traveling across Europe and blackmailed me into sleeping with him. If I didn’t sleep with him, David’s fiancé would find out, and David couldn’t have that.“ He took another sip from his highball glass, “I figured he relied on her for money, seeing as he slummed it with me for the past two months and borrowed more money than a rich person would ever dream of. But then Gilliam got tired of me, fired me, and there was nothing preventing him from spilling David’s beans, so to say. I ran into him and his fiancé, and I told David I had been fired because perhaps I thought he still cared about me. He got this look in his eye and said, ‘We have to do something.’” George finished off his glass, “And now I know what he did.”

“Uh, not that your story doesn’t make sense or anything, but I have a question,” March approached George, poured himself a glass of something amber-colored from the bar, and smiled at Jack. “Why didn’t you show up to lunch?”

“A free meal couldn’t make up for me having to watch my ex-lover play house with that rich girl,” George’s expression soured.

“Yeah, but why weren’t you at your apartment?” Jack added. “David said he dropped by to check on you and then we were there this afternoon.”

Now George indicated Jacques, “I needed money.”

“Oh, I see who you really are now, George,” Jacques exclaimed in mock horror. He surely knew George and every other guy under his influence had only one goal in mind while they kept his company. “If that’s how you really feel, then I’m done with you! Back to that hovel of yours.”

“Actually,” March indicated with his glass, “George is right.” This puzzled everyone. March was either several steps ahead of the conversation or several more steps away from sobriety than the rest of the room. “He is the first one the police will look at if something happens to Gilliam. They’ve already been by the bar. Probably asked if Gilliam had any enemies, and the freshest name on that list of enemies will be _George_. And if you,” March turned smoothly toward Jacques, “don’t want your little boyfriend arrested for _murder_ , then you’re going to pay us to prove he’s innocent.”

Jacques alternated between George and March several times before answering, “Are you two even a legitimate detective agency?”

“The Nice Guys. Look us up in the Yellow Pages,” March quipped, winking at Jack, “We’ve got our faces right by the ad.”

“They don’t actually look like us,” Jack retorted. “I mean, if someone was looking for you solely based on that photo, they’d think you were a 55 year old ex-accountant with black hair.”

George squinted at them, wracking his memory, “Didn’t I see you on the TV? Something about a porn star…”

“Yes!” March grinned, “Misty Mountains! We played a vital part in that whole deal even if it went way beyond the confines of our original case, but that’s beside the point because you know us! You know our work!”

“Wait, wait, wait, wait!” Jacques stopped the conversation from getting too out of hand, “If the police come by, I will just tell them he was with me. Why do I need to pay you two clowns _anything_?”

“I don’t know if you’ve ever dealt with the LAPD,” Jack stepped forward to not only address but also intimidate Jacques, “But saying you were with your male lover at the time of the murder isn’t an alibi. It’s a minor inconvenience. I’d say they’re going to threaten you as being his accomplice unless you turn on him, and I don’t think you really want this man’s life on your conscience.”

***

“$1500! God, I love rich people. They have no idea what anything costs.” March tucked Jacques’ check away in his wallet.

“What are we gonna do about the other case?”

“What other case?”

“The Helen and David case. We have to tell them something,” Jack flipped down his visor to avoid the light from the setting sun.

“Fuck them. We can just say we found him shacked up with someone. We don’t have to say who it was.”

“And for him missing lunch? What’s the reason there?”

“He’s an asshole. Can’t that be the explanation? Some people are just assholes.”

Jack turned on his blinker in preparation for his exit, “But now there’s the whole thing about proving David’s a murderer. Where do we even start?”

March reclined his seat and slipped on his sunglasses, “I think solving one case is enough for today, don’t you think?”


	11. Chapter 11

It wasn’t until they had pulled into March’s driveway that Jack realized he hadn’t eaten for about 7 hours.

“I’m going for dinner,” Jack spoke through the driver’s side window, “I don’t suppose you want me to get you anything.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? Come inside. I’ll order something,” March once again expected Jack to follow him into the house, and quite predictably, Jack turned off the engine and did just that.

Holly sat at the kitchen table reading the same book from earlier that day.

“You really set on finishing that, kiddo?” Jack shut the door and gave Holly a warm smile.

“It’s for school. Assigned reading. I missed Friday, so I’m catching up on the reading guide,” Holly closed _To Kill A Mockingbird_ with only about 20 more pages left, “How’s the case?”

“Cas _es_. We’re on a roll today,” March looked at the various takeout menus pinned to the fridge with novelty magnets, “What are you guys in the mood for? Pizza? Chinese?”

Jack checked the Styrofoam boxes on the counter from earlier and was pleased to find the eggs had been eaten. “How ‘bout it Holly? Your pick.”

“I already ate,” she picked up the plate beside her and walked it over to the sink, washing off the crumbs. Jack could only hope it was something more nutritious than toast.

“Well, I could get you dessert! We could go to that soda fountain you like.” March had caught a second wind, ready to entertain anything Holly wanted because he could fuck up his other fatherly duties, but he certainly couldn’t fuck up spoiling his daughter.

“Dad, I’m sick. I don’t want dessert. I just want to feel better,” she wiped her nose with the back of her hand and stopped, considering March’s peaky appearance, “Have _you_ eaten today?”

“Yes,” he said pointedly, gesturing toward the pancake boxes. His assertion that he was able to take care of himself without Jack’s help had fallen apart. He turned to the cabinet behind him, taking out the scotch when Jack found himself reaching for the bottle.

“I think you should wait until after you’ve eaten dinner,” Jack advised, forcing the bottle to rest on the counter.

“ _I_ think I know when to stop, thank you,” March struggled with the bottle, unable to pry it from Jack’s grasp.

“ _I_ think sometimes you need an occasional reminder that the human body runs on more than just single-malt liquor,” Jack battled with March silently for the scotch, flitting his eyes over to Holly to remind March not to do this in front of her.

“Fine,” March gave in, opened the fridge, and cracked open a Bud much to Jack’s chagrin. “This doesn’t count. It’s basically water.”

“Rehydrate with beer. I’ve never heard _that_ from a doctor before.” He wanted to stop, but he knew if _March_ didn’t stop, Holly would lose both her parents. “If you’re not eating, I think I better leave.”

Holly cradled her book around her stomach anxiously, “Can I come with you? That soda fountain actually sounds like a pretty good idea…” she suggested weakly.

“What is this? What’s going on?” March looked from Holly to Jack, paranoid.

“March, I’m tired,” Jack started, “It’s been a long day, and I just want something to eat.”

“Without _me_ ,” March emphasized, “That’s fine. Whatever. Holly, you can go. I don’t care.”

At this, Holly’s eyes shined with silent tears, and she backed up to the wall, waiting for what she believed would be an inevitable explosion. Jack watched Holly breakdown and decided he needed to do something.

“Go pack a bag, Holly. It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.” Jack kept an eye on March, who didn’t get what the big deal was. Holly slipped out of the kitchen to her room.

“What are you doing now? You think you know how to raise my daughter better than I can?”

“March,” he tried to knock some sense into him, “You’re scaring her. Can’t you see you’re scaring her?” March avoided looking at him, downing his beer, but Jack continued his speech, “You’re scaring _me_ , March. I don’t know if this is about Rose or if it’s about what you told me earlier or if it’s something completely different, but you need to know how you’re affecting people.”

“What do you want me to say? ‘Sorry, Healy, I’ll stop drinking.’ And then all my problems will be solved? Newsflash. My wife’s dead, I’m a terrible father, and statistically, I’ll probably die of heart disease in the next 10 years. Oh yeah, and how could I forget. I’m an unlovable _asshole_.” March dared Jack to respond.

“Holly loves you,” Jack listed evidence contrary to March’s last point, “ _I_ love you. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

Sneaking around the corner, Holly carried a backpack, pillow, and a duffel bag. March’s face quivered, and he turned around to face the stove before he had the chance to fall apart. “I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow. Get some sleep, Holly. Don’t forget to take your medicine.”

“I won’t.” She opened the front door and waited for Jack to follow her.

“I love you.” March called, and Jack couldn’t be sure who he was talking to.

“I love you, too, dad.” Holly responded, making her way down the concrete stairs to Jack’s car, hoping that a night away from her dad would be enough to put things in perspective for the both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this certainly came out of nowhere lol


	12. Chapter 12

They stopped at an old fashioned diner with a shiny metal exterior and neon sign. Holly ordered a strawberry milkshake, and Jack ordered a hamburger, onion rings, and a chocolate milkshake. He made sure to break out his Alka-Seltzer he always kept handy in his jacket pocket.

Not sure how or even if he should broach the subject of March, he decided to ask about Holly’s schoolbook. “ _To Kill a Mockingbird,_ huh?” June had read the book with her book club, and he thought it may have been one of those books about women getting in touch with her feelings and trying for a more fulfilling life. Didn’t seem like the sort of book they’d read in schools, but he didn’t know, times had changed a lot since he was a kid.

“Yeah,” Holly started, “Have you read it?”

“No.”

“It’s about this little girl whose dad is a lawyer. He teaches her all these moral lessons about life and growing up and racism. And there’s this guy, Boo Radley, who’s a recluse. I don’t really get why he’s in the book at all. Maybe I’ll understand when I finish it.” Holly sighed. “Sometimes I wish my life was like a book. A real exciting book where I discover my mom didn’t really die in a fire, and she’s been a secret British spy all along. And when she comes back, dad realizes how much of an asshole he’s been and he promises never to cheat on her again and I never have to get married to anyone because I’m out solving mysteries all the time.”

“Your life is more like a book than you think.”

“Not one _I’d_ want to read.”

“Just think of it like this,” Jack rubbed his hands together, trying to think of a positive spin on the situation, “In these books you read, are the characters happy all the time?”

“No.”

“Sometimes they get real sad, right? Bad things happen to them?”

“Yeah…”

“But then things work out for them in the end, right? The hero wins?”

“In kid books, maybe. Things are different in chapter books.”

“What happens in chapter books?”

Holly placed her head on top of her hands, “They’re all different, but usually the hero’s life is normal. Then something bad happens, and they have to fix it. Then in the end they go home, and even if they win, nothing’s the same.”

This was certainly a minefield, and Jack tiptoed as carefully as he could. “Maybe right now things are as bad as they could get in your story, and you can only go up from here.”

Holly thought on this, and before she could answer, the server arrived with their respective orders. Jack popped an Alka-Seltzer tablet into his water and cut into his hamburger, finally realizing just how hungry he was.

Sipping at her milkshake, Holly formulated a hesitant question. “Do you want to know how I want my story to end?”

“If your story ends, doesn’t that mean you’re dead?” Jack responded with his mouth full, concerned at Holly’s train of thought.

“No, I mean, for this _book_ of my life. Like how Nancy Drew has different books, but she’s still Nancy Drew. Do you want to know?”

“Sure,” Jack took a swig of his fizzing water and cut the taste with his milkshake.

“I want dad to stop drinking. I want him to realize I’m not 12 anymore,” she pressed her lips together in concentration, “I know this sounds mean, but I want him to realize that life goes on with or without mom. And I want him to know…” Her voice wavered, and the tears were back, “that _I’m_ allowed to miss her, too.”

He took napkins out of the metal dispenser next to the salt and pepper, handing them to Holly for her to dry her eyes and blow her nose.

“Ah, come on. Your ending’s gotta be happier than that,” Jack tried to make her laugh and succeeded. “What, you don’t want to win the lottery? Get a full ride to college?”

“There’s one more thing…” she hesitated.

“Well, what’s stopping you? Lay it on me.”

“I don’t want you to think it’s weird.”

“No way. I want to know.” Jack thought maybe she’d talk about getting a boyfriend or a car or a job. Teenager stuff. Nothing could’ve prepared him for her answer.

“In the end of my story, I picture you becoming a part of the family,” she tore her straw wrapper into equally sized pieces to avoid having to look at him, “Sort of like a second dad or something. That way dad would never be lonely, and I could have someone to talk to when I’m mad at him.” She chanced a glance at Jack to see his reaction, and unfortunately, her timing caused him to momentarily choke on a piece of hamburger. He coughed, pounded his chest, took a drink of water, and wiped his face with a napkin before he could even _think_ of replying to Holly.

“Yeah, I knew it was stupid,” Holly gathered the little paper squares in front of her and crunched them up into a ball.

“No,” Jack swallowed one last drink of water, making sure he was safe to talk, breathed deeply, and decided to address Holly’s concerns, “That’s not stupid. I don’t want you to think that’s stupid. It’s just—it’s not _normal_ for a family to have two dads, and I wouldn’t want people to treat you unfairly because of that.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she responded with an unreadable expression, posture sinking, “I wasn’t calling you gay if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Holly…”

“I don’t think you are. But dad is, and—and—I knew it was a stupid idea. I knew I shouldn’t have said anything,” she got up as if to leave for the bathroom, but Jack caught her hand firmly but gently.

“Holly,” Jack started, trying to calm her down, “We can talk about this in the car. Just…let me finish eating, and we can talk about this in the car, okay?”

She nodded her head, confused, but placated. For the rest of the meal, she played with the little ring of condensation on the table that her milkshake glass made. Jack finished half his burger and asked for two cups to take home the leftover milkshakes as well as some boxes for the rest of the food.

As soon as both his and Holly’s car doors shut, Jack felt she deserved the truth.

“I don’t know if I should be telling you this because I was raised never to talk about this kind of stuff, but now people are aware of it and talking about it.” There really wasn’t anything else he could say that could delay what he had to say. “You said your dad is gay, and I don’t think he’s gay like how you’re thinking. He still likes women. He might like men, too. I don’t know about that. But, Holly, I don’t want this to change how you see me, okay?”

“Okay,” she said quietly.

“You promise?”

“I promise,” she reached out her pinky and waited for him to do the same.

Jack let out a deep breath and laughed nervously. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this.”

“You don’t have to,” Holly offered.

“No, no. I have to,” Jack directed his admission to the diner, to the radio, any place where he wouldn’t have to see judgment, “Holly, I’m gay.”

A soft hand reached out for his on the steering wheel and gave a sure little squeeze. He looked over at Holly and saw her smiling, silently assuring him that despite what everyone else might think, she was okay with it.

Jack drove her back home, telling her that March had probably calmed down and that she’d be better off at home in her room anyway. Even if Holly disagreed, she complied. Jack carried her duffel and backpack, handing them off to her once he’d unlocked the front door.

“Call me if there’s any trouble,” Jack waved.

“I will,” Holly chimed confidently and closed the door.

Telling Holly his secret _had_ changed how she saw him, but not how he’d expected. If anything, she loved and trusted him more than she had before.


	13. Chapter 13

That morning, Jack woke up a full hour before his alarm and just lay there on his side, mentally preparing himself for the day while he waited for his clock to crawl toward 9AM.

He wasn’t sure how he even got to sleep last night, but it wasn’t the usual nightly anxieties that had kept him awake. After telling Holly the truth, he was borderline euphoric. Arriving home, he’d expected the weight of the day would collapse on him, and he’d crave sleep. But the moment his head hit the pillow, he felt all his thoughts, bright and loud and amplified. His mind soared, and now, waking up, he felt the hang over. His senses were still sharp, and for the first time in a while, he craved a drink to dull his thoughts.

His stomach had no desire for breakfast, and he vaguely wondered if this is what March felt like all the time with his seemingly nonexistent appetite. Skipping breakfast now would allow him an excuse to offer a trip to a drive thru if not a sit-down eatery to discuss the next step in their caseload. Was it too early to pull March from his scotch-induced slumber? Definitely. But he had the excuse of running by the house to check on Holly, and if he just so happened to check on March in the process, then who could blame him?

***

Closing the door to the Marches' home, he surveyed the living and kitchen. A line of Budweiser cans ran through the house like a trail of breadcrumbs, at the end of which he found March snoring on the back porch with a lit cigarette in his mouth. The ash bent at a spectacular angle. It appeared March lit the cigarette with full intention of smoking and immediately fell asleep.

“March, hey March,” he thought of flicking his ear or making a joke about houses burning down, but both felt entirely too mean. He settled with shaking March’s shoulder, and with one final snore, March jerked his head up into consciousness. He pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and smushed it entirely into the overflowing ashtray.

“Came by to see if Holly was feeling better,” Jack told his half-truth and watched March’s eyes flutter, remembering what had happened last night.

“She went to school.”

“So she’s feeling better?”

“I don’t know. I think she’s just sick of this house, “March laughed bitterly, “Funny. We finally rebuilt, and now she can’t wait to get out of here.”

Jack couldn’t be sure March had slept at all except for the nap he’d just woken up from. He smelt earthy like beer and the sharp scent of liquor. The overshirt from yesterday was gone, and with the remaining tank top and jeans, March might as well have been naked.

“Hey, how about you get cleaned up, and we get out of here?”

“Taking me to Vegas?” March’s eyebrows arched dubiously, and he pulled himself up out of the chair. Making his way to his room, he striped off his tank and unbuttoned his pants in preparation for his next outfit.

Jack, hands in pockets, inspected the living room casually, poking at knick knacks and magazines, avoiding the completely open door to March’s bedroom as he changed. When he heard the shower start running, Jack figured he should sit down and resign himself to a lengthy wait.

About 10 minutes into an episode of The All-New Jeopardy!, March emerged from his bedroom, wearing a yellow bowling shirt and a pair of brown polyester pants.

“Nice. Very professional.”

“Professional? Who said anything about being professional?” March asked.

“I thought you might want to dress up for when we meet David and Helen.”

“No,” March protested, “You told them 3 days right? This is the third day of the investigation. I'm taking that as a paid vacation.”

“That would be fine if we only had one case, but today is the first day of our _second_ case. The one that _you_ sold to Jacques, by the way, not me.”

“We don’t have to interview David today,” March held his ground, “We can…search for clues and shit. I don’t know.”

“March,” Jack leveled with him, “We have no leads. Unless you want to run over the same ground we’ve covered, we need to talk to David. He doesn’t know he’s being investigated, so he’ll probably have his guard down.”

“Fuck. _Fuck_. Fine. I’ll change my clothes because unlike _you_ , I care about not looking like a schmuck.” March stormed back into his bedroom to change, finally deciding on his brown suit with an orange shirt and a striped tie.

“This is what ‘not looking like a schmuck’ looks like?” Jack needled.

“Shut up. It beats—what is this—geriatric mobster?” He gestured to Jack’s tropical shirt and worn out shoes. Goading each other was a good sign. A sign that things were on their way to being back to normal, which Jack couldn’t decide if he felt good about or not. Would he rather fall back into the same comfortable routine, ignoring the past few days, or accept the changes that made his and March’s friendship more complicated? He wished he could accept the ticket back into normalcy, but after what he’d told Holly, could he keep that side of him bottled up away from March?

***

In lieu of calling David and Helen, they made their way to the Village Inn for food. Jack ordered a Reuben alongside his coffee, and March ordered a piece of lemon meringue pie, a strawberry crepe, and a side of hash browns.

“I don’t _get_ chocolate pie, man” March began, “It’s not pie if you ask me. It’s glorified pudding with a crust.”

“I don’t get how you could be opinionated about almost anything. It must take so much energy out of you.” Jack watched March dig into his pie ravenously, the first thing he’d eaten in perhaps a full day.

Bits of meringue clung to his mustache, and he wiped them off with a cloth napkin, “Like I said, there’s no downtime up here,” he pointed with his fork to his temple.

“Doesn’t sound like a lot of fun.”

“No. It’s not.” March reached into a pocket on the inside of his jacket, took out a flask, and spiked his coffee before any of the servers could see, “Say you have a favorite movie. You can watch it every night before you go to sleep. Now with me, guess how many times I can watch a movie before I get bored?”

“How many?”

“Once. And that’s only if it’s a _good_ movie, and I’m sorry to say those are few and far between.”

“Do I bore you?” Jack wasn’t sure where the question came from, but he’d asked it and there was no going back, unless by some miracle March hadn’t heard him.

March narrowed his brows and wiped his face once more, “No. No, that’s different. I’d never say that. Unless someone was really really boring, then maybe, but _only_ if they were being an asshole.”

Jack was nearly relieved until his brain made the distinction between ‘I’d never _say_ that’ and ‘I don’t _think_ that.’

“So when you were married, you never got _bored_?”

“What are you saying? Are you asking if I’ve ever _cheated_?”

The conversation gave Jack an adrenaline buzz. He’d never really dared to push March this far before, but he pushed on anyway. The past couple years he’d caught glimpses of March as he really was, and now he was tempted to cut past the façade for his own sake. He needed to know if he actually loved him or if he’d fallen for the more likable version March presented to the world.

March answered his own question. “Yeah. I’ve cheated. But not because of _boredom_. Jesus. It was after we got into fights or when I was drunk, which isn’t—that’s not an excuse.” He seemed to repeat his wife’s words to remind himself. “And then sometimes, things were going perfect, and I don’t know. I don’t know why I do shit, Healy.” March sipped his spiked coffee, and the server stopped by with their meals on each arm. Wiping the whipped crème off his crepe with a fork, March decided that as long as their conversation was where it was, anything was fair game. “What about you?”

“Me? No,” Jack thought back to June and actually regretted not cheating on her. He could’ve shoved it in her face, but no, if anything, he’d been very naïve about marriage.

“What, too good for it?” March had a laugh in his voice but also wanted to see if Jack was holding some sort of moral highground.

He chewed his steak fries thoughtfully. “I thought when I married June, I’d made it. That was what I was supposed to be. Nobody could judge me because I was doing exactly what I was supposed to do. But it turns out life is hell when you’re only doing something because everyone else says you’re supposed to. I wish I could be one of those guys who did what they wanted. No regrets.”

“And what is it that you want to do? Become an actor? Hell, I’d watch movies if you were in ‘em. Or wait, you want to become a model. Don’t think I haven’t seen the ad for your tough guy classes. You’ve got potential.” March was having too much fun, and Jack enjoyed the sarcastic compliments. Or were they just normal compliments? “Come on, you gotta tell me. What would you do if you knew you couldn’t fail?”

March had leaned forward, both his arms on the table, goading him, and fuck, if Jack didn’t want to say it.

“I’d let myself fall in love without being afraid they wouldn’t love me back.” He figured that was censored just enough to say in the middle of a family restaurant in front of the person he had quite possibly fallen in love with.

“Wow, didn’t know you were such a sap.” March grinned to himself as he finished his meal, satisfied to have made it past one of Jack's many walls.

“Yeah,” Jack chuckled, “I’m a regular romantic.”


	14. Chapter 14

While March stood in line at the bank to deposit Jacques’ check, Jack made a phone call setting up their appointment with the happy couple. David agreed to meet at a little French café where he did most of his writing, and Jack rolled his eyes. Writers could write anywhere. They didn’t have to go to the most pretentious places to do so, but if they didn’t, were they still writers?

Finally, March returned with Jack’s $750 in hand. Jack stuffed the envelope in his glove compartment.

“We’re meeting them at noon. You’ve got George’s key still?”

“Yep,” March flashed the small, silver key and placed it safely back in his pocket. “How are we gonna kill an hour?”

“Guess we’ll just get there early, scope out the place before they get there. Normal detective shit,” Jack put the car in drive and set off trying to find this fucking _café_ he wasn’t even sure had space for more than three people. He imagined an ordering window, a kitchen, and a porch of dainty chairs that would collapse if Jack even thought about sitting in one of them.

Sure enough most of the seating lay outside the actual establishment, but there didn’t seem any danger of destroying the furniture. They parked a couple blocks over and watched the clock, waiting for an acceptable time to head over.

March wore his sunglasses, smoking with the window rolled down, and Jack didn’t think he could look more like a cop. His posture seemed entirely checked out of the situation, so he was surprised when March asked him a question after nearly 15 minutes of silence.

“When was the last time you went to Gilliam’s?”

“What?” Jack set down the paper’s crossword and removed his reading glasses from the end of his nose before he could even think about responding.

“Imagine if we went on the same night. That would be _hilarious_. So. Was it January? Earlier? Later?” He folded his sunglasses into his pocket so that Jack could get a good read on his face and know that there was nothing malicious about his line of questioning.

He remembered _exactly_ when he’d been to Gilliam’s last. It was around the anniversary of Rose March’s death, and March withdrew more and more, drinking about as badly as he had been the past few days. This compounded Jack’s loneliness, watching March hurt himself and not being able to do anything about it. It was August now. Soon the cycle would begin again.

“Uh, it was November. Last year.”

“Gotcha,” March considered this information carefully, “I don’t go in November, ya know. That’s reserved for women telling me they don’t want to be a rebound for a dead wife. Sounds pathetic when I say it out loud.”

After March’s admission that he visited Gilliam’s for reasons other than cases, he thought maybe that would be the only time the subject would surface. March had confessed to his past the way that kids confess to something they got away with but which weighs on their minds with unspeakable guilt: In expectation of absolution. March wanted someone to know and to offer some ounce of understanding. He could’ve kept up the lie of taking secret cases, but that would have served to construct a wall between him and Jack. March preferred Jack knew the truth. And along the way, March had gathered that Jack possessed similar secrets. Whether that was because March had told similar lies about the same place, Jack didn’t know, but what mattered now was that March wanted Jack to know his truths and thought that warranted some kind of exchange in return.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Jack began, but March cut him off.

“It’s 11:53. I think we better head over.”

***

Much to their surprise, David was alone with Helen nowhere in sight.

“Where’s Helen?” Jack asked and instantly regretted it. According to his face, wherever she was, she wasn’t with him.

“Yeah, I thought she was the one invested in finding ol’ Georgie,” March took the seat positioned between Jack and David at the small, square table, despising how setup made it seem the table could offer room enough for three bodies.

David could’ve maybe dodged the question if it were only asked twice, but now the absence of Helen seemed to be something he was obligated to address. “We broke up.”

This shocked Jack, but March thought this was more than strange.

“Sorry, man,” March deflected, “I guess finding George isn’t very high on your to-do list, then.”

“So you found him?” His eyes looked hopeful and much more enthusiastic than when Jack first interviewed him.

“Yeah, we found him,” Jack wasn’t sure how smart it was to give out George’s hiding spot if indeed the police were searching for him.

“Tell me,” March withdrew George’s key from his pocket, “Why did you have his key in the first place?”

“What?” David blinked his eyes quickly, not expecting this question in any form. “I, uh, took it from underneath his doormat and forgot to put it back.”

“Why was it on your key ring?”

“So I wouldn’t lose it.”

Jack saw March send him a slight wink, so he sat back and watched March work.

“David. We went to Gilliam’s. We talked to people about George, and it seems like you were a regular there yourself. Now, do you want us to tell you what the patrons of that _fine_ establishment told us about you two, or do you want to tell us yourself?”

“What, are you gonna blackmail me?” David considered Jack and March now as potential threats, “I think you should know that I don’t have any money. That’s all gone now.”

“Did Helen leave because she found out about you two?” March squinted, knowing David would be quick to correct him if that wasn’t the truth.

“I told her, okay!” David erupted quite unexpectedly, “She kept asking questions about him. What was he like. What did we do. Where did we go. I don’t know why she was suspicious. Maybe because I didn’t _want_ you guys to find George, and she knew it. She knew he was the key to what I did while she was away in Europe, and every time she pressed on that spot, she could tell it was sore. I guess I couldn’t stand living a lie any longer and marrying a person I didn’t really love. So if your game is blackmail, go ahead, but I have about $50 to my name right now.” He threw his wallet out on the table dramatically.

“Just...put that away. We’re not blackmailing you,” Jack gestured to the wallet.

“No,” March thought out loud, “No, that can’t be right. No. Gilliam. Gilliam was blackmailing you and was going to tell Helen you were gay if—if George didn’t sleep with him. Why would you tell Helen the truth? That doesn’t make any goddamn sense!”

David tucked his wallet away in his pocket and screwed up his face in confusion. “Gilliam was never blackmailing me. Where did you get that from?”

‘What was that expression?’ Jack thought, ‘Don’t assume, or you’ll make an ass out of u and me?”

“So let me get this straight. Gilliam _wasn’t_ threatening to tell Helen about you and George?” March clarified, hoping David just misunderstood him because if he was telling the truth…

“No. That’s total bullshit. Who told you that?”

“George,” Jack revealed, the full weight of the situation dawning on him.

“What did you say to each other when you saw him Wednesday?” March leaned forward in his seat, anxiously awaiting the reply.

“He said that he’d been fired and that he had to do something about it. That Gilliam couldn’t get away with being such a dick,” David recalled, “I said no way. Just get another job. I’d help him out if he needed the money. But George. He was always about pride. Really old-fashioned. Couldn’t even fucking admit he was gay.”

The whole conversation was dizzying. Jack wouldn’t be fooled twice, but David really seemed like he had no idea what the fuck was going on. His motive for murder had dried up as soon as he said he’d told Helen the truth, but this was all from the mouth of a potential murderer. Where were the facts?

“How do we know you really told Helen about George?” Jack felt like an asshole for interrogating a possibly innocent, grieving man, but it had to be done.

March followed suit. “Yeah, where’s the evidence she’s gone? Let’s take a ride back to the apartment and have a little chat with her.”

“She left. Went to stay with her parents. And if you want proof, here it is.” David’s hand dove into his pocket, pulling out a ring and slamming it on the table, “She gave me back her wedding ring this morning. Left it on the bedside table with a note. Now, if you can excuse me, I need to go put my life back together.”

David grabbed the ring, pushed himself away from the table, letting his chair screech across the concrete, and walked down the street without looking back. Perhaps he’d come to the meeting thinking he could reunite with George, but after hearing those lies, he couldn’t bring himself to give a shit about where the guy was. Jack sat frozen in his chair, waiting for March to say something. March removed a flask from his jacket for a quick swig, twisted the cap back on, and hoped up out of his seat. What they would do, Jack didn’t know, but he knew March and that meant they weren’t giving Jacques back the $1500.


	15. Chapter 15

March instructed them to drive to his house, and when they arrived, March headed straight to the phone book.

“Hello?” He plopped the huge book onto the counter and grabbed the receiver out from between his cheek and shoulder.

“Hello, may I ask who is calling?” A prissy, proper voice answered.

“Oh, hello this is Holland March calling. From The Nice Guys Detective Agency. Yeah, the guys you paid yesterday.”

Jack watched March pace around the kitchen as he spoke, stretching the phone’s 20 feet long cord to its max.

“I’m calling because we just got a break in the case. Yes, I know. Very exciting. Is George there? No, don’t get him. This information is strictly for you, _Monsieur_ Michel.”

The voice on the other end grew loud and excited, and March grimaced.

“Yes, yes, I took French in high school. Now this is what you’re going to want to do. Call the police from a pay phone. Tell them you think you know who murdered Gilliam. No, no, you won’t be getting in any trouble. If you tell them before they figure out he’s at your place, then that takes a lot of the focus off you.” March turned toward the kitchen, and Jack had to dodge underneath the phone cord while March opened the fridge, taking out a beer. “You’re going to tell them when George showed up at your place, which I’m guessing was early Thursday morning? 4 AM? Yes, that will make the police very, very happy. No, I don’t think George is innocent. _Don’t_ tell him that because he’ll probably run away or maybe even feel like he has to take care of you. Yes, that does mean kill. And if he doesn’t do that, he’ll run away, and the police will probably think you were in on it and charge you as an accomplice. Call at a payphone. That’s right. You have a good afternoon as well.”

As he hung up the phone, he pumped his fists.

“Good news?” Jack chanced, and March popped the top off of his beer with a bottle opener.

“Great fucking news. That idiot Jacques is going to call the police,” he took a swig of beer, “All I had to do was make him feel like he was gonna die or go to jail, so that takes care of _that_.”

“So we’re just going to wait and see what happens?”

“Basically yeah. What else _can_ we do?” March took off his suit jacket and tossed it over a kitchen chair.

“Michel. How did you know his last name was Michel?” Jack watched March take a seat at the kitchen counter, sorting through the mail as if that was the first time he’d seen it.

“There was mail in his apartment. I took a look when I got a drink. No biggie.”

‘The most predictably inept, surprisingly competent person I know,’ Jack thought, not for the first or even the last time that week.

And now, without a case to talk about, Jack felt the air grow thick between them. “I should go,” he started when March set down his beer, wiping any stray moisture away from his face.

“Where’re you goin’?”

“Run some errands,” he lied.

“I could go with ya. I’ve got nowhere to be,” March stood up, calling Jack’s bluff.

“It’s…personal,” was all he could manage.

“What? You got a hot date later? Surely you’d tell me about that, right?” March had his hands in his pockets, making his way toward Jack with a questioning half-smile.

“Uh…”

“I get it,” March bobbed forward then back like one of those silly drinking bird desk toys, “You’re not comfortable being around me. You’re still freaked out about the gay thing. You don’t want to talk about it, and that’s fine. We don’t have to talk about it. Ever. We’ll just be two straight guys with issues we don’t talk about. Same way it was before.” He wiped his hand across the air in front of him as if he were erasing a chalkboard.

“No.”

“What?”

Jack had surprised himself, but he supposed the way he felt shouldn’t be surprising at all. “No, March, we’re not just two straight guys because I’m not straight. Not even a little bit, like you. So stop lumping me in with you and assuming we’re the same ‘cause we’re not.”

After all the times Jack had dodged the conversation, March hadn’t expected a response like this. “So you’re not—like you’re _actually_ —I mean, you’re not straight at all.”

“Not at all. Is that a problem?” Jack raised his eyebrows in a challenge.

March sputtered, face turning a deep shade of pink. “Ah, no, no, that’s fine. I just didn’t think you could, that you would—“

“Be gay?”

“Yeah, because you’re you, and,” he gestured up and down Jack, “you—you’re—you’ve never flirted with a woman. I mean, I’ve never _seen_ you flirt with a woman, have I? God, I’m so stupid.” March perched one hand on his hip and stared off into the distance, re-framing any memories that rushed into his head with this new piece of information. “How did you not know about _me_? Like it’s so fucking obvious.”

“What, does sleeping with men somehow change your appearance, or…” Jack squinted, using one hand to indicate March’s hideous orange shirt.

“I’m fucking bisexual, Jack. Literally all the coworkers I’ve ever had have called me a fruit, either to my face or behind my back. Did you not pick up on that? _At all_?”

He almost forgot what they were talking about because it was the first time March had ever addressed him by his first name. “What about the whole ‘It’s just about the sex’ thing?”

March braced himself against the couch and regained his composure, “Technically, yes that was true. But—but that was like—what if I told you I ate a bag of Funyuns everyday but that I didn’t actually like them. What would you think? Part of that _has_ to be a lie, right?”

“March, you’re losing me.”

“The reason I said that was to make it seem like no big deal! I didn’t know you were fucking gay. I was operating under the impression you—you—I don’t know!” March ran his hands through his hair, leaving him disheveled. “I thought you’d think it was fine if I just had sex with guys and didn’t know I’d fall in love—that I could fall in love with one. Believe me, I’ve met _plenty_ of guys who’re the type to call you a fag if you’re about anything other than getting off.”

Oh, Jack knew the type alright. Harvey had pointed out to him all the dicks he’d sucked that weren’t the “boyfriend sort.”

“Well,” March waited impatiently, “Are you gonna say anything, or are you just gonna stand there?”

What was there to say? Jack had been on the defensive throughout all of this. He’d reacted instead of acting, and he figured there was no better time than now to act. Approaching March slowly, Jack kept his gaze firmly on the floor until he was about three feet from his partner. That euphoric feeling was back, cleaving his chest in two with an intense light that almost made him laugh for no discernible reason besides the fact he had so much energy he thought he might have a heart attack if he didn’t release it soon.

“I’m not one of those guys,” Jack started, “I can’t live without love. I did that with June, and I’ll never make that mistake again.” He reached for March’s upper arm, giving it a squeeze and drawing himself closer. March looked like he couldn’t believe this was really happening, frantically scanning Jack’s face for a sign that he was serious and not pulling a cruel prank on him.

It wasn’t until Jack’s lips had closed around his that March decided to rest his hands around Jack’s waist.

“This is real. This is really happening right now,” March managed between kisses, and Jack replied with a rough, “Yes.”

The establishment of reality clicked something in March’s brain, which sent him into overdrive, kissing down Jack’s neck, unbuttoning his shirt. Ironically, Jack had to slow March down. He didn’t want to rush through this, and March’s anxious energy unnerved him more than it turned him on. Jack slowly worked at March’s tie and buttons. Feeling March’s bare chest for the first time against his was unbelievable, and—

The telephone rang.

“Ignore it.” March muttered.

The telephone rang 13 more times, stopped, and started up once more.

As much as Jack hated it, he pulled himself away from March and answered the phone.

“Hello?”

It was the school nurse. Holly had a temperature again and needed someone to come pick her up. He relayed this to March, who went to work buttoning up his shirt again.

“I’ll be right back,” March grabbed the keys from the counter, and Jack protested.

“I can come with you.”

“No, I don’t want her to think anything’s going on,” March pulled on his jacket, considered the tie and discarded it, “She can be more observant than I can sometimes.”

Jack laughed because he knew the extent of Holly’s knowledge about her dad and now about him. After seeing the two of them acting flustered around each other, there would only be a few logical hoops to jump through to get to the truth. She’d find out someday, but preferably not in the same day that both Jack and March found out they had equally fallen for each other.

***

Holly found out about them when Jack’s lease ran out at the end of December and he decided to move into the Marches’ guest bedroom. Jack couldn’t feel any other way than overjoyed because Holly got at least part of her storybook ending. But not everything could be storybook. November was hard on March, but he threw less of a fit when Jack brought over meals and filled up glasses of water for March when he sat on the back porch smoking. He even broke down and cleaned March’s room after he caught March trying to wear clothes that smelled like a military barracks.

Jacques had called the police just as March thought he would. George was arrested and charged with the murder of Gilliam Gray. The papers covered the case thoroughly because despite Gilliam’s “unsavory” background, he came from a rather notable family whose bloodline ended with him. The public mourned his loss without knowing the real Gilliam, and most importantly, Jacques did not ask for his money back.


End file.
